


from the deepest cut

by PhantasmagoricReverie



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26018326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantasmagoricReverie/pseuds/PhantasmagoricReverie
Summary: The illusion of choice is always just that, an illusion.Takes place in Stormblood, a bit before storming Doma Castle.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	from the deepest cut

**Author's Note:**

> This is really a thing meant to explore the WoL's feelings... I hope you enjoyed it in some way!

Enough. They want to utter those words, but it dies in their throat, before it can be made real. It matters little; they can still taste the ashes of it on their tongue. It’s a single, simple plea. They have had enough. What Warrior of Light? They have only ever been themselves, a single person struggling to claw their way out of the womb of this world. Only ever walking, weapon in hand, bearing the weight of all that came before. Like a pawn, only ever to move forward. They press onwards, one foot in front of the other foot; over and over again until the time comes that they must once again raise their weapon, raise their quieting voice.

They are tired. They want little more than to close their eyes, to sleep, perhaps for eternity, just until their wounds have closed enough to stop bleeding with every breath they take. It is like a gaping wound is left where their heart is supposed to be. But if there is no heart left in that cavity, then why do they feel every loss so acutely?

The illustrious warrior, champion of the people, defender of Eorzea, little more than a speck of dust, turns their eyes upward, towards the Doman sky. The stars sparkle, ever indifferent to the plights of man. Gazing at the sky they wonder if it would be better to be a star. To be far away, indifferent and unaffected, burning brightly only to burn out.

Perhaps they are closer to a star than they think.

Leaving their fellow Scions behind, standing amongst the mountains, all for a rare moment of solitude. They think back, to the moment they came to Eorzea. It feels like a lifetime ago. Maybe it is. It happened in another time, another life. A life untouched by the loss they carry on their shoulders. It rushes over them all at once, like a cresting wave devouring them. A part of them breaks even further, as they recall everyone they’ve lost. Everyone from Noraxia to Ysayle, to the countless casualties they don’t have names for.

But the loss that shatters their heart is the loss of their own self.

They fall to their knees, burying their face in their hands. No amount of armor could shield them from this blow, no healing magic, however potent, could relieve them of this agony. They want to scream. They want to cry. They don’t know if they’re even capable of crying anymore. The emotions vanish as quickly as they arise, replacing the explosive heat of anger and steel edge of sorrow with numbness that feels like a requiem.

Once more, they turn to the heavens. Their eyes are empty, like the darkness between stars. They cannot afford to doubt, to be afraid. The Warrior of Light exists for everyone else, to act as anything else is an act of utmost selfishness. They are not a hero, they are not delusional enough to believe that, yet they are disillusioned enough to wonder if they are a villain. A harbinger of chaos and destruction cloaked in a shroud of light.

Clenching their fist they raise it to the sky, uncurling their fingers as if they are letting something go. The moon smiles down at them, a callous, uncaring, apathetic crescent. Taking a deep breath, the Warrior of Light stands up. They walk back to where their companions await, likely asleep. They feel heavier than when they left, a mere corpse leaving a trail of blood and endless corpses in its wandering.

They cannot falter. Even if this cause is not their own, the mantle has already been thrust upon them. So as it had been then, so too is it now, with them taking on the causes of others, championing the fights chosen for them. 

The echoes of their past self scream louder than anything they know. It is like an alarm, a warning. But they have always excelled at this, haven’t they? Giving up fragments of themselves for others, until slowly there is very little of them exists at all. Maybe at the end of this journey they will be unrecognizable, something greater than human, something less than human. But they must go on. They must continue to sing this reprise, without end.

And so they go on, ever onward, persisting in this futility, until the time comes to raise their weapon, to raise their voice. One more step, they go—


End file.
